Gospel Story Finder

It was the summer of 1992 that I met, fell in love with, and married my eternal sweetheart, Diane Morehead. She was in my family home evening group. Smart, funny, pretty, a returned missionary, and she loved the Lord more than anyone I had ever met. I knew from the moment I met her that this was the girl for me. As we began to discuss the possibility of marriage, Diane said we needed to talk. She invited me over for dinner at her apartment, made me a wonderful dinner, and at the end of dinner said, "There is something I need to tell you before our relationship goes any further." I thought to myself, here it goes, the great break up speech and she just wants to be "friends." Diane went on to tell me that she had multiple sclerosis, an autoimmune disease. Twenty-five years ago there were limited drug treatments and not much was known about MS. She explained to me that even though she was perfectly healthy now, there was a possibility that someday she would become crippled and could even die prematurely.

So, there I sat with my entire life ahead of me. Did I truly believe in eternal marriage? If yes, marry Diane and all will work out in God's time. If no, don't marry Diane. As I was praying about what to do, an image came to my head. Whether I had seen it or not before in a church lesson I do not know, but it looked like this: my 80 or so years of life was really just this small dot on this long spectrum where the line has no beginning or end. The answer to my prayers was if I believed in eternal marriage then we could do this. I said to myself, "Surely I would have at least 10 good years of marriage before Diane's health started to deteriorate, I can do this."

So, we continued dating and were married in the Ogden Utah Temple. Ten days after our marriage, Diane's first visible MS symptoms arrived. While we were walking up the stairs from lower campus to upper campus at BYU, her leg started to drag. What? I must admit I started to freak out a little. Ten days into marriage? I was hoping for 10 years, not 10 days. I pled with the Lord, a little more time than this where she can be healthy, but this was not the answer. In Alma 26:27 we learn that we should "bear with patience thine afflictions," and in Alma 36:3 we learn that those that "put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials."

As I reflected further on the answer I received before we were married, I remembered that marriage is eternal, that it can last forever, but God must be in the middle. So, I continued onward, what other choice did I have? Quit? Give up? Get divorced? I had made a covenant with God and with Diane that I intended to keep.

I graduated from the College of Engineering at BYU and I was hired on by a Fortune 500 company and moved Diane and our new son to Denver. From there I continued to work hard, excel at work, and we added additional children as we moved around the country. Diane's health continued to fail, but she never, ever complained. She would say her MS was a blessing. I worked hard and rapidly moved up through the ranks of the companies I worked for; holding positions of Director, Managing Director and Senior Vice President at three different Fortune 500 companies. As I transitioned from company to company Diane was always supportive of my career aspirations. During this time my work-related travel was increasing to weekly travel from coast to coast and border to border. I loved my job. I loved the money, fancy cars, nice hotels, and first class airline seats. The opportunities I was being given for growth were unheard of for anyone of my age in this industry. At the time it was easy to think that I earned these opportunities, but in hindsight, I see the Lord was using these opportunities for training me. He was helping to move me along so I could be at this place, here at BYU-Idaho, at this time in my life.

In January of 2006 I was overseeing facilities operations in over 3,000 banks and campus facilities across the country. I managed over $4 billion in real estate assets and had an $800 million operating budget. From the outside looking in I was successful and I had the perfect family, but my heart was breaking every day-my beautiful helpmate and companion was suffering physically and emotionally from the effects of her multiple sclerosis. It was clear to me that I was going to have to choose between my promise to Diane to help her in her time of need or to continue on my corporate path that I enjoyed immensely.

The day had arrived, my company offered me the position of COO, Chief Operating Officer, over all of Europe, Middle East, and Africa. We would be based in London, and the kids would go to the finest private schools. I had a nice compensation package for housing and salary-everything you could want monetarily. But my wife's health concerned me, how could she handle the kids, driving to school and activities, when her health was getting so bad she was almost to the point of not driving a car and could only walk a few hundred steps a day. So, I went to the Lord in prayer, not once, or twice, but hundreds of times over the period of nine months asking, "What should I do?" I would ask and plead. I put options before the Lord. I created spreadsheets to analyze my options and to work through all possible solutions, but still, no answer. As I was flying from Seattle to New York in November of 2006 the captain of the plane came on the speakers and said, "Folks, we are just headed a little to the north of Rexburg, Idaho, then continuing on just south of Chicago, then into New York." Wait, what? Rexburg? I had flown back east hundreds of times and I had never heard the pilot mention anything in southeast Idaho, especially Rexburg! Pilots don't mention the names of small towns, but he did that day. I had never been to Rexburg, Idaho. I had heard some great things were happening at BYU-Idaho, but what could I do for employment? I landed in New York and will never forget that night when I logged onto the BYU-Idaho website, sitting in the Long Island Marriott, and saw two job openings I could possibly do. I called my wife, told her my crazy plan and she was so excited for me and for our family. I interviewed, received one of the jobs and we moved to Rexburg.

My wife's health continued to fail, but she never once complained, she passed away in the fall of 2014. We had been married 22 years. She was my best friend, my life long companion, and the one I promised I would protect and take care of. I remember when she fell into a coma I crawled up on her bed, I lay beside her and I wailed. It was not crying, it was my heart breaking. I could not believe this day had come. I had 22 years to anticipate this moment. I had gone through it thousands of times in my mind-how I would be prepared and it would be fine. It wasn't fine, it hurt, and it was the most terrible thing I had ever experienced. Later that evening Diane passed onto the other side. The next day my heart broke again, over and over again. My misery was out of control, it is indescribable. I tried praying, asking God for some relief to the pain I was feeling, but to no avail. We had the funeral and I continued for four more days in a fog of pain and suffering. I have had pain in my life, including a broken back, compound fracture in my leg, and broken fingers and hand. I have had torn ligaments in my ankle and knee that had to be surgically repaired. I have had a brain hemorrhage and now have a titanium clip here in my head. I have had third degree burns all over my chest that required a long stay in the hospital and skin grafts. I have had kidney stones, pancreatitis, and my gall bladder removed. I have sinned and gone through a painful repentance process. But having my heart broken was worse than all of these put together. A week after Diane's death I was at home, still not myself, crying, trying to gain composure and my daughter Emily who was 17 at that time came over to me, grabbed me by both arms and said, "Dad, stop this. Mom is so happy now. She is free of pain and the body she was trapped in. She never wanted you or any of us to be sad because of her trials. We can all be together again, but you have to get it together!"

So it was. Emily was right. As my boat sat there floating with no direction, she put wind in my sails. Emily filled my sails and allowed me to get my boat moving again. My heart was broken, my spirit contrite, and I was ready to ask, "Dear Heavenly Father, what am I to learn?"

The April morning sun colored each detail of the spacious, modern, cream-colored building. The building was surrounded by green grass, and it looked like it might be a school. We walked through the door carrying carpet-cleaning catalogs under our arms.
Erika, my fiancée, was helping me make sales calls; we were trying to find new clients for the company I represented. The heels of our shoes, worn down from walking, clicked on the red-brick floor. As we continued down the hall we both realized that this building was a church. We proceeded cautiously because we did not know what customs and rules might apply here.
I wondered if this church might have red carpets like the ones I had sometimes seen used for weddings. But everything in this building was simple, yet elegant.
A group of friendly children and young people greeted us, and Erika asked them who we should see.
“Robert Vázquez,” replied a small boy. “I’ll get him for you.”
I glanced at Erika and quietly told her that if they tried to convert us, we would say we had another appointment and escape to her house.
I was completely satisfied with the religion of my parents. Although I was not completely devout, neither was I a black sheep. I was one of those irregular little lambs who attended church according to the season. But through sermons, Bible study, and moral lessons, I had become convinced of the existence of a loving Heavenly Father; of His Son, Jesus Christ, who atoned for our sins; and of the Holy Ghost. I had been taught about commandments and ordinances. I also knew of our undeniable imperfection as mortal beings.
I considered myself against money offerings, idol worship, and every other superstition or precept not founded on divine love and justice. I had been taught to pray and worship God without the intervention of saints. I believed in love, humility, service, the dangers of judging others, and the balm of forgiveness. I knew many members of my church who were virtuous, righteous, and exemplary. It seemed just short of impossible to consider another religion.
Holding Erika’s hand, I arrived at a room that seemed to be a classroom. There I met Mr. Vázquez.
“What shall I call you? Father? Reverend? Pastor?” I asked.
“Just call me Brother,” he replied. He invited us to go with him to services on the following day, and I was surprised to find myself accepting his invitation.
The next day Erika and I went to a Sunday School class. We were introduced to names like Nephi, Moroni, and Helaman. I felt as if I were in a foreign land without an interpreter. Nevertheless, both Erika and I felt there was something familiar about the ideas we were hearing. They sounded similar to those in the Bible. And so I dared to raise my hand, and I stood and affirmed that Jesus Christ was our greatest example of humility because He always subjected Himself to the will of the Father. Brother Jorge Montoya, our teacher, agreed with what I said. That surprised me. What kind of church was this where even a heretic, which is what I thought I must be to members of the Church, could speak and have the teacher agree?
So we continued attending. I received a Book of Mormon and read it in a single week. I gained a testimony, took the missionary discussions, and was baptized and confirmed on 3 May 1996.
The next day I felt as if I were walking around with a 100-watt lightbulb over my head. I was so happy I went out of my way to help strangers.
The following month Erika and I were married. And on 29 September I had the privilege of baptizing her. A year later we were sealed in the México City México Temple.
Best of all, I never felt that I had to leave the road I had been traveling in my former religion. My former knowledge was embraced and perfected by the true Church of Jesus Christ. My conversion was like passing from the light of a cloudy day into the greater light of a sunny day—like rowing a boat and someone starts the motor.
I realize there are many righteous, good, and holy people in other religions. Although they do not have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost, they are illuminated by the Light of Christ. Still I wonder how we can help these good people see that the exceedingly bright light of Jesus Christ makes the lanterns, streetlights, and candles of other beliefs inadequate. There is no greater truth than pure truth, and pure truth encompasses and perfects the true beliefs of all good people throughout the world.
I know now that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only church that contains the fulness of truth. And I know that Jesus Christ has opened His arms and the doors of His house to all who wish to follow Him.
I did not sell any carpet-cleaning services that morning in April. In fact I have never sold a single square meter of carpet cleaning to any member of the Church. Nevertheless, I am sure that in that single day I gained more—a thousand times more—than anyone could have imagined.

Let me tell you another incident that indicates President Kimball looks upon himself as our minister and servant.
A few years ago I was in my office about 6:30 a.m. I am mentioning that so you will know I was there early—it takes some of us a little longer. My phone rang, and as I answered it, I recognized that special voice that said, “Marvin.”
I replied, “Yes, President Kimball.”
He said, “Could I come up and see you?”
His office is on the first floor, and mine is on the third. (That is the only time I am ever higher than he is.)
My reply was, “President Kimball, if you want to see me, I will be right down.”
He then responded with, “Would you do that?”
He did not exhibit any authority. There was no feeling of “Do you know who this is?” or “You’d better come.” He courteously asked, “Could I come up and see you?” When I told him I would be right down, his voice reflected gratitude as he said, “Will you do that?”
I went to his office in a hurry. After we shook hands, he handed me a letter and said, “How would you answer this?”
I read it quickly and said, “President Kimball, you might want to consider this approach,” and told him what I thought.
“I agree,” he said. “That is my thinking also.” He shook my hand, and I was on my way, reflecting about a prophet who asks for counsel and puts himself above no man.

As a boy, I learned a great lesson of faith and sacrifice as I worked on my grandfather’s farm during the terrible economic depression of the 1930s. The taxes on the farm were unpaid, and Grandfather, like so many, had no money. There was a drought in the land, and some cows and horses were dying for lack of grass and hay.
One day when we were harvesting what little hay there was in the field, Grandfather told us to take the wagon to the corner of the field where the best hay was, fill the wagon as full as we could, and take it to the tithing yard as payment of his tithing.
I wondered how Grandfather could use the hay to pay tithing when some of the cows that we were depending upon to sustain us might starve. I even questioned if the Lord expected that much sacrifice. Ultimately I marveled at his great faith that somehow the Lord would provide. The legacy of faith he passed on to his posterity was far greater than money, because he established in the minds of his children and grandchildren that he loved the Lord and His holy work more than earthly things. Grandfather never became wealthy, but he died at peace with the Lord and with himself.

In the Philippines, there are science high schools for academically gifted students. Students in these schools take more subjects, spend more hours in class, and devote more effort to schoolwork.
This kind of environment was toxic for me. I gave up so many things upon entering this school. I stopped learning how to play instruments. I almost never attended Church activities, and I would occasionally miss Church services on Sundays for interschool competitions. I struggled attending seminary, although the classes were conveniently offered during weekends.
One Saturday, my seminary teacher told us about how busy she was in high school, and yet she managed to still do her seminary assignments and study the scripture mastery scriptures. She challenged us to do the same.
Challenges enliven me, so I took this one. I carried my scripture mastery cards with me everywhere. I prayed for help to manage it with my school demands. I used every window of time I had. I memorized scriptures while commuting to school. I chatted less and would take the cards out of my pocket. My friends noticed; shuffling the scripture cards became our new activity during breaks and lunchtime. They enjoyed quizzing me. Some started to bring their scriptures—even those who belonged to other denominations. They shared about activities at their own churches. I felt the atmosphere around me change, and school felt lighter and better.
My three younger sisters followed that lead, and now my family reaps the blessings of the scriptures in our relationships at home. It was more than just memorizing words; my seminary teacher taught me the difference the scriptures would make in me and in the people around me. I know that whatever challenge or trial comes to my family and friends, we will always find strength, guidance, and repose in the words of our loving Savior.

The heat rose in dizzy waves before us as we sped along the freeway. “It must be very hot outside,” I thought as the air conditioner hissed away in our station wagon. I had heard how difficult it was for the first settlers to even enter the St. George Valley in southern Utah, let alone survive there. This was almost impossible to comprehend as we drove easily along through rocky volcanic barriers on a ribbon of asphalt.
We rapidly ascended into the Virgin River Valley, and the little community of St. George stood out against the scorching sandstone cliffs.
A barrage of bright signs beckoned us with “Enter,” “Vacancy,” “Color TV,” “Sauna,” “Pool.” When I rolled down the window, a blast of hot air reminded me that I would soon be refreshed by a swim in the blue waters of a motel pool.
The heat from the hot pavement penetrated the soles of my gym shoes as we walked the few blocks from our motel to the old St. George Tabernacle.
Hewn from native red-orange sandstone, the thick rock walls showed countless small markings from the pioneer stonecutters’ hand-held instruments. Directly under the stately spire was a tablet with the inscription “Commenced 1863—Completed 1871.”
While my little sisters played under a shade tree on the Tabernacle grounds, I walked around the building for closer inspection. The doors were locked, but by shading my eyes, I could just make out through the old window panes the beautiful circular wooden staircases.
My mother pointed out some of the old buildings surrounding the tabernacle and told us that these were at one time part of the old Dixie Academy—later Dixie Junior College. The new Dixie College campus is now located clear across town.
As I peered into one of the old vacant classrooms where biology had once been taught, I could hear my young sister Terressa protesting crossly, “I’m tired and bored, and I don’t want to see any more old buildings.”
A morning of tennis and sight-seeing left me weary. I lay by the pool, and the perspiration trickled freely. It was then I realized I was more than just a sun-warmed visitor. I felt at home here, as if somehow I belonged. My passing feet had disturbed shadows in the sand—reminders of a life-style long since gone. And yet it was as if I had discovered a golden chain in those sands—a chain of people linked together by time and love—my family.

One day at my high school, we had an assembly about the negative effects of drunk driving and drinking alcohol in general. After a brief introduction, the speaker paused and scanned the auditorium. He said, “If you’ve never once tasted alcohol, stand up.”
Laughter bounced off the walls as people whispered jokes to each other. Their laughs were cut short when they noticed a few people were actually standing. Out of nearly four hundred students, seven were standing, including me.
As I felt my classmates’ eyes on me, my face grew hot and I shifted from foot to foot. But then, something I had often repeated in Young Women came into my mind:
“We will stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (see Mosiah 18:9).
With a soft yet powerful whispering from the Spirit, I straightened my back and stood tall. I was no longer embarrassed.
I stood for something.
Charlene J., Arizona, USA

Our children will be more able to survive the challenges that will come to them when they know and understand that keeping God’s commandments can bring them peace and joy in their lives and enable them to walk uprightly. While traveling in the car with her mother and younger sister, five-year-old Clara sensed that her mother was deeply troubled about something. “Mommy, what’s the matter? You seem so sad.”
Not wanting to go into detail about her concerns, but feeling that she needed to acknowledge to her daughter that she was worried, Clara’s mother asked, “Clara, what would you do if you felt sad and frustrated?”
“Well,” responded Clara, and there was a long pause, “you need to take time out and think. Then you need to pray all the time and read the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon. You need to bless other people. Just think about the good things people do for you and the good things in your life, not the bad.” Young Clara is beginning to understand how to walk uprightly before the Lord.

During the next few years, Mormon missionaries seemed to be all over the place. Even my barber was trying to preach to me! Several sets of missionaries came to visit me. Feeling somewhat ashamed about my treatment of the two I had left standing on the doorstep a couple of years earlier, I began inviting them inside, on the condition that they “leave their books in the car, and don’t preach to me.” I always felt uncomfortable when they came, and I would not allow any discussion of religion.
How was I to make them leave without being extremely rude? How? Then I got an idea. Sure, why not? It should be easy. I would just prove that they were wrong. I would show these people that their doctrines were false, and I would do it with their own scriptures. The next time they came, I would be ready.
If I were going to prove them wrong, I had to know something concerning what they believed. How could I find out what they believe? That Book of Mormon the two lady missionaries gave me years ago. Sure! I had put it away in some drawer or box. I soon found it. What did it contain—the story of Joseph Smith’s life? A history of Mormonism? I didn’t know. But one thing I did know: when the missionaries next came, I would be ready for them.
I took the book to work, where I had some free time throughout the day. The first chance I had, I opened the book. Why, this didn’t appear to be about Joseph Smith at all! I noticed a page in the front showing interesting things to look up—the Sermon on the Mount on the American continent, Columbus, the Savior in the Americas. What was I getting into?
Not finding anything about Joseph Smith’s life story in the book, I picked up some missionary tracts at a gas station owned by a Mormon. I wanted to find out about this Joseph Smith. I read about Joseph’s First Vision. Somehow it seemed different from what I remembered hearing years before. I read about an angel named Moroni and some gold plates. Returning to the Book of Mormon, I began reading it in my spare time.
Something strange began to happen. My hostility began to disappear. Indeed, my desire to prove the missionaries wrong disappeared. My brief curiosity after first opening the book was replaced by a desire to know. What was this strange power that seemed to literally reach out and pull me toward this book? What was happening to me? I had to know.
I found myself using all my spare hours to search through the Book of Mormon. I found something else too: a promise by an ancient prophet named Moroni—a bold declaration that I could know the truth of the book by asking God to reveal it to me. Alone one day, I bowed down before my Maker, and, holding the Book of Mormon in my hand, I asked Heavenly Father what it was that was pulling me to the book. Immediately—almost before I had finished my prayer—a recollection of my past habits and hostilities flooded over me. I begged for forgiveness, having not recognized my wretched state until then.
The next few days were about the same—I tried to cope with an overwhelming desire to immerse myself in studying the Book of Mormon. Then it happened. It was a Thursday night before the October general conference of the Church. I came home from work with a peculiar feeling growing inside me—a feeling I had never before experienced. I did not know what to think of it. It slowly grew in intensity. What a marvelous feeling! I remember thinking, “If this is what it feels like in heaven, I wish I were ninety-nine years old and about to die.”
Then came the testimony—that sureness of the missionaries that had disturbed me in the past. I knew! Joseph smith had been in the presence of the Father and the Son. Indeed, he had been visited by angels. I knew. Yes, indeed, I knew.

Fishing is a necessary and pleasant pastime for many Samoans. Molimaufou, Letane, and Aioo carry their dugout canoe (paopao) from their house to the beach a half a mile away. Molimaufou has placed the family wash in the canoe and will do it by hand in a clear, stream-fed pool while the tide is out. While she is doing the washing, Aioo and Letane try their hand at fishing using homemade spears and goggles. Today the water is murky because of a storm out at sea, and they don’t find any fish or shellfish.

The conversation then jumped to the other events of the day, both at school and at home. At supper, my oldest son asked me to help him with his Scouting requirements. He was progressing toward Eagle rank but was having difficulty in completing the high jump skill in the Athletics merit badge. Although he was a fairly good athlete, he just couldn’t seem to find enough spring to jump the additional inch that was required for a boy his height and weight. In fact, he had finished every other skill rather easily, but the high jump seemed to be a tremendous obstacle.
I suggested he try the long jump alternate. He admitted he was even worse in that area and reasoned that he had given it his very best effort, failed, and now needed some extra reassurance. I watched him attempt the long jump. He was right. After inspecting his shoes for traces of Superglue we both concurred that the high jump was his best chance for success.
We went over to the school high jump pit. I reminded him that David had a difficult challenge in the person of the formidable Goliath. I stressed that a person can accomplish goals that appear to be impossible, if they have enough faith and work hard.
After a short warm-up and his first attempt, I was beginning to see how tall Goliath really was! We worked on his approach, his speed, his takeoff, his head position—everything I could think of. As failure began to take its toll, the inch became two, then three. The old wedge of discouragement finally found the mark and sunk deep into my boy’s heart.
“Dad, there is no way I’ll ever make that jump!”
He was trying to conceal his emotions, but it was obvious that his spirit was almost broken. His hair was tousled, his face was wet with perspiration, his shirt was torn, and he looked as though he had been through the first cycle in a washing machine.
“Rhett, the only limits you’ll ever know are the ones you place on yourself. I know you can do it. Just don’t give up. Now get up and …”
“Look, Dad,” he shot back, “I’ve given it everything I have. There’s nothing left to give. It’s not that I’m quitting. I’m just smart enough to know when I’m beat.”
“But Rhett …”
“Dad! Let’s go home. There are plenty of other merit badges I can earn.”
“High?”
Of course, the high jump! Rhett had talked himself out of a goal simply because he had failed and no longer believed he could surpass that invisible inch. I had to convince him that he was wrong. I couldn’t wait to get home and recall the story of the dogs to Rhett.
For some reason he didn’t share my enthusiasm, but I still encouraged him to try again. My pleading pep talk was beginning to wear down his resistance, so I applied the finishing touches. Assuming the role of Knute Rockne, the famous Notre Dame football coach, I sternly said, “Those dogs can’t fly, but Eagles can!” He was silent for a moment, but then agreed to train harder and continue jumping until he overcame his obstacle. I was pleased with his devotion. Every day he would jump rope, jog, do exercises, or practice his jumping form. It looked like he was getting serious.
In three weeks the weather began to clear, and the theory was put to the test. Rhett was measured and weighed again to make certain he was still in the same skill group. After a word of prayer and some warm-ups, he went to his starting point while I set up the bar. He was unaware that I had set the bar a full two inches above the required height. It was a gamble, but I could tell by the way he glared at the bar that he was determined to clear that height if it took all night.
He began to rock back and forth to establish a rhythm. As he took his first step I could hear my heart pound anxiously. His pace began to increase, and so did my pulse. Faster, faster until he gathered himself for that final spring. He grunted as he swung his arms high and arched his body toward the bar. There were three or four inches of blue sky between the boy and the top of his “fence.” It was hard to believe he had cleared it with such ease on his first attempt.
As he lay on the pile of foam rubber, staring wide-eyed into the sky, smiles began to appear on our faces. There was no “S” on his chest, no cape around his neck, he was not capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound. He had not earned an Olympic medal. Yet he had more than tripled the output necessary to achieve his goal. Perhaps he had gained something far more valuable than any award. He had begun to see the importance of hard work and determination.
I realized there is no reason for us to allow invisible fences to limit our righteous aspirations. Anyone who has overcome the barriers to success has had to eliminate the invisible fences that would prevent achievement. I am convinced that the prophet Alma taught a profound truth when he said: “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

The first time my family drove through Yellowstone National Park, I had three things on my list of must-see wildlife: a bison, a bear, and a moose. I kept my eyes glued to the window, and by the time we left, I’d been able to spot two of the three—not a bad score!
It was only after talking to the park rangers and reading a book on Yellowstone ecosystems that I realized all the other amazing wildlife I had missed out on. I could have spotted a lot of other cool animals if I had just taken a closer look and explored a little more. Big-horned sheep and bobcats, badgers and minks, pikas and shrews, fish and birds of all sorts.
The bison, bear, and moose were the easiest to spot and the most fun to snap pictures of, but by ignoring the smaller animals surrounding them, we missed seeing all the other beauty right under our noses.

A long time ago, I was called as a missionary to the Texas Houston Mission. The call said that I should report to the MTC to prepare to teach the gospel in the English language. As my stake president set me apart as a missionary, I remember him saying these words: “The language the Lord would like you to learn is the language of the Spirit.”

I knew that to learn the vocabulary and grammar of the language of the Spirit, I would need to study the scriptures, identify promptings, and understand the whisperings of the Holy Ghost. I knew that it was a language I had been learning my whole life as my parents taught me to keep the commandments and to love the Lord. I had mentors and teachers who had modeled fluency in the language of the Spirit. “To take counsel from [the Lord’s] hand,”16 as Jacob instructed, we must develop our own fluency in the language of the Spirit. To try to learn that language, I undertook a deep study of the Book of Mormon.

Once I had arrived at the MTC, I enjoyed learning the principles of missionary work, but I kept wondering how I might say certain phrases in Spanish. When that happened, I told myself to keep focused on the tasks at hand. But my mind kept wandering to the few Spanish phrases I knew, and I kept wondering about Spanish grammar and vocabulary.

I eventually recognized that these unbidden thoughts were the whisperings of the Spirit helping to prepare me to go to Houston, Texas, where there would be many people I would meet who would speak Spanish. So I went to the MTC bookstore and bought a copy of El Libro de Mormón and put it with my things, pleased that I had felt and recognized a prompting and sure that I would have the opportunity to share that book with someone as a missionary.

When I arrived in Houston a few weeks later, my mission president, Clark T. Thorstenson, pulled me aside at the airport. He said, “Sister Steele, the Lord has made it clear to me that He would like you to learn Spanish. I am assigning you to the Spanish-speaking program.”

I felt like the Lord had been trying to whisper it to me all along and was smiling, now that I was in on the plan too. That evening I wondered how I would ever learn Spanish, and I wished that I could go back to the MTC. Then I remembered my Libro de Mormón. I took it out and began to read. My study of the Book of Mormon in preparing for my mission helped me to follow along: “Yo, Nefi, nací de buenos padres.”17 Buenos padres? “Goodly parents”!18

At first I had no other books to use to study the Spanish language except for the Book of Mormon. But I remembered the inspired counsel of my stake president: the language the Lord wanted me to learn was the language of the Spirit. I enlisted the Spirit—who, it turns out, speaks perfect Spanish—to magnify my abilities and to tutor me in both the Spanish language and the language of the Spirit. Those two languages would be crucial to my missionary service.

A few months in, I had a companion from El Salvador, Hermana Seravia. She was a great missionary and senior companion. One day she said to me, “Hermana, you are doing pretty good with Spanish, but you talk too much like a Book of Mormon! We don’t really say, ‘Now behold, we rejoice to be in your home.’”

I have reflected a lot in the years since this experience about the way that calling unfolded. I know that the Lord is omniscient. Surely He knew that the people I was called to teach in Houston spoke Spanish and that I did not know Spanish when my call had been issued months earlier.

So why did the Lord send me to Texas without MTC language training? At the time, if I were to have designed the experience for myself, I would have called me to learn Spanish in the MTC. However, although I have the power of choice and autonomy in many things, I am not the primary architect of my own life experiences. I am called to trust that the Lord has a plan for my life, just as I know that He has a plan for yours. Both the big picture and the smaller details are within His infinite and loving calculus.

As it worked out, the experience was tailored to draw upon my particular strengths and to fortify my particular weaknesses. The airport switcheroo meant that I could not lean upon my own capacities to learn Spanish as a purely intellectual exercise. I had to rely on the gifts and tutelage of the Spirit. I had to plead for the gift of tongues. I had to rely on the prayers of loved ones—the power of which I could feel bringing words and phrases to my mind and loosing my tongue as I taught. The Lord foresaw that Spanish would be a great blessing in my life but that learning to trust Him and rely on Him while learning the language of the Spirit was an even more important lesson.

Jesse opened her eyes and lay quietly for a moment in the unfamiliar room. She closed them again and pictured the pleasant desert town where she used to live. I’ll miss the swimming pool most of all, she thought. This town at the foot of the mountains feels very different, but it must have a good pool somewhere.
And today she would find it. Her mother had promised her they would. Jesse threw back the covers. Placing her hands under her knees, she swung her limp legs off the bed and sat up.
She pulled her wheelchair close to the bed and shifted herself into it and maneuvered into the bathroom.
At breakfast in the large, sunny kitchen, she asked her mother about going swimming.
“You haven’t started on your math lessons,” her mother reminded her.
“I hate math, and you did say that we could go today.”
“We will. Anyway, doing the math at home is better than going to summer school, don’t you think?”
Jesse sighed. “Yes. I just wish I’d worked harder last year and didn’t have to do it now. Well, I’ll try to get something done.” She wheeled out onto the wide, pleasant front porch and set her books on a table.
A girl about Jesse’s age emerged from a white house directly across the street. She hopped lightly down the front steps and gave Jesse a casual wave. Jesse waved back and watched the girl disappear around the corner on her bicycle.
At that moment Jesse’s mother came out onto the porch. “How about inviting that girl to go swimming with us this afternoon?” she asked.
The girl’s name was Diana. She and Jesse found very little to talk about as they rode to the pool.
Once in the water, Jesse became like anyone else. If anyone stared, it was with admiration. In the water her useless legs were no problem as her strong arms took her smoothly to one end of the pool and back. After several laps, Jesse stopped at the deep end and looked around for Diana. She finally spotted her splashing around in the shallow end. “Come on down here!” Jesse called.
Diana struck out, splashing and thrashing. As she reached the center of the pool, the splashing increased, and Jesse could see that Diana was no longer making any real progress. Her wild strokes became more frantic. Jesse swam quickly to her, caught one hand in hers, and pulled her to the edge. Diana sputtered and coughed and rubbed her face with her hands.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t swim very well?”
“Was I supposed to shout across the pool, ‘I’m a terrible swimmer’?” She coughed again.
“Let’s get out a minute,” Jesse suggested. Diana climbed out and sat quietly beside Jesse on the edge of the pool.
“I don’t really like the water much,” Diana said, breaking a long silence.
“Well, I try to keep in condition,” Jesse said.
“Condition for what?”
“I want to be on the swim team at school, and I do wheelchair racing and stuff.
“You’re really an athlete, huh?”
“I have a lot of respect for my body, such as it is,” Jesse said quietly. “What do you like to do for exercise? I’ve seen you ride your bike.”
Diana answered, “I ride my bike to get places because it’s easier than walking. I’d rather read. I guess I’m the scholarly type.”
They rode home in silence. Diana climbed out quickly and called out her thanks.
“I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her,” Jesse said to her mother. “We don’t seem to have much in common.”
“Having something in common helps, but it’s not absolutely necessary for friendship,” her mother commented.
The next morning Jesse again sat on the front porch with her math book. She opened the book and stared for a few minutes at the page. What could be more boring than math?
She saw Diana come out her front door. Diana waved to Jesse, hesitated for a moment, then crossed the street. Jesse smiled and motioned for Diana to sit down.
“What are you doing?” Diana asked, looking at the books.
“I did so poorly in math last year that I have to take the course at home and send the work sheets in.”
“Why did you do so badly?”
“I guess I was more interested in swimming and racing. The teacher gave us a lot of homework, and I didn’t do most of it. I think math is pretty hard—and boring.”
“I’ll help you. I like math.”
Jesse smiled up at her. “Will you?” she said. “That would be great.”
“Well, Jesse, we have to exercise our minds, too, you know,” Diana said, with a twinkle in her eye.
Jesse looked at Diana for a moment and then laughed. “Suppose you help me learn math, and I’ll help you with your swimming.”
“Sounds like a good summer,” Diana answered with a smile.

As a young woman, I had planted myself upside down. My halfhearted efforts at attending church, paying tithing, and having regular prayer and scripture study had slowed my spiritual growth almost to a halt. In high school it became clear that I would need to choose between my current direction and the Lord’s direction. I then decided to replant myself, try my best, and rely on the Lord’s care.
With all my strength I began pushing up toward the Son, working my way past feelings of doubt, anger, insecurity, and selfishness. It wasn’t long before I realized how much Heavenly Father loves me, how much He has blessed me, and how much He wants me to reach my full potential as His daughter. I was given nourishment from Young Women leaders, bishops, seminary teachers, and friends. My righteous desire, however, was not without trials and tears. In His loving mercy, Heavenly Father gave me a push here and there when I felt that I could push no more. He helped me grow from my setbacks and successes. No sunflower, after having sensed the light of the sun, would bury itself back in the ground. I too could sense the light of the Son, and I would no longer hide myself from His goodness and joy. I would “follow the Son, with full purpose of heart” (2 Nephi 31:13).

Trust in the Lord. I still remember the feelings that flowed through my heart while I sat next to my bride in the sealing room of the temple: feelings of excitement, joy, and anxiety. Before we knelt at the altar, the temple president counseled us regarding the importance of what we were about to do. He explained that trials would come into our marriage. At the time his words seemed of little importance to me.
Now, years later, as my wife and I struggle with raising our teenage children, those words from the temple president have new meaning. I recall one night walking around our home, turning off lights, and sitting in an easy chair waiting for the last of our children to come home. The hands of the clock over the television set showed me that our son would not be honoring his curfew. The minutes passed, and dozing in my chair was out of the question.
As the hands of the clock moved past 2:45 A.M., I worried, Was my son hurt? Was he lying in the street someplace? At last I heard him come in. What was I to say? The confrontation lasted only a few minutes but seemed an eternity. Later my wife and I began to think more deeply about our role in our children’s lives.
Out of that night’s fear and in other times of conflict with our teenage children, we grew and changed in our approach. We realized that we needed to shift our attitude from worry that a child’s conduct might reflect poorly on us to one of deep and profound concern for his or her eternal welfare. We changed from parents who tried to sweep family problems under the rug to avoid embarrassment to parents who exercised faith as we weathered comments of unsupportive family members and neighbors and turned instead to the Lord for direction.
Through the turmoil of these trials, our marriage has grown stronger. We know that our kind and loving Heavenly Father established a step-by-step process for growth: “He that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day” (D&C 50:24).
Through placing our trust in the Lord, we have seen this process of growth pull us to higher levels of gospel understanding and forge a deeper commitment to applying the teachings of the Savior in our lives.—Ron Hansen

We moved last year from Ellicott City, Maryland, USA, with our family to Harrogate. We are blessed with four children, two of whom are now serving missions. Our daughter, Natalie, started serving in May 2022 as a teaching missionary in the Arizona Gilbert Mission. In February 2023, her brother, Peter, was called to serve a service mission in the England Leeds Mission.
While we have been wonderfully blessed since our daughter started her mission, we have felt a change in our home since Peter was called. We truly felt increased spiritual power in our home as our son began to participate in the service missionary training centre meetings the week prior to being set apart. The Spirit is more accessible, the Christlike attributes that we are seeking to obtain come more easily. I attribute that to the blessing of having a missionary serving from our home. He has been set apart, completed his training, and is beginning to serve in our local community.
We have noticed so many positive and miraculous changes in him, and in our family dynamics already. We look forward to the changes that Elder Rosenquist will yet undergo and experience as he continues his mission.
And in divine serendipity, our son’s service mission leaders, Elder and Sister Conway, are from Gilbert, Arizona. Their daughter Kelsie and her family are living in Gilbert, Arizona, in the ward in which Sister Rosenquist is labouring.

Recently, a local television channel ran the story of a 10-year-old boy named Josh Bowers from West Jordan, Utah. He found a wallet that had $530 in it. Josh didn’t hesitate. He picked it up and took it to his mother. The wallet belonged to a mother of four, and the $530 was rent money she couldn’t live without.

Josh had some compelling reasons to keep the money. His father had recently been disabled on the job, so his family is living on Social Security. Then there were all the things Josh could have bought with the money. What he really wanted, as he said, was a new bike. But he knew the money was not his and that someone needed that money. The relieved young mother gave Josh $40 for returning the wallet and the money. Josh planned to use some of the money to get his old bike tire fixed. But a viewer, on hearing the story, had Josh pick out a brand-new bike “to reward him for being an honest guy.” Interestingly, the donor of the bike wanted to remain anonymous, but he said: “Josh set an example that everybody should follow, and he looks happy” (“Honest Boy Returns Lost Wallet and Money,” KUTV, 8 and 10 September 1998, 10:00 p.m.).

Karen Reynolds does have pioneer ancestors—who settled in Utah and in the colonies of Mexico. “I can remember having Pioneer Day celebrations on July 24, followed by pageants about the journey to Mexico. We recounted the early years there, complete with stories of living in caves dug into the river bank,” she recalls. “But I never knew how much I would benefit from the skills my parents taught me—how to work, how to preserve fruit, how to bake bread, how to sew, how to make do with what you have,” she says.

Recently, Karen’s husband had to give up a job with a good salary so they would be able to relocate and help with a family farm because of her father-in-law’s illness. “We don’t regret our choice, but our pioneering skills have really been put to the test,” she says. “Careful budgeting and wise buying have been an absolute necessity for us, not just an experiment in following a Relief Society lesson on provident living.”

“Making do” is not the only thing Karen has learned from those nineteenth-century pioneers. Last year, she and her husband lost a baby. “I thought my heart would break when we laid him in that cold grave,” she recalls. Days later, confined to bed because of medical problems, Karen was still grieving. A ward member brought her a stack of books—including one of pioneer stories. “As I read through that book, I was reminded how many of those women had left their little ones in shallow graves by the trail. My baby has a coffin and a marker, and I can visit the spot. It wasn’t easy, but I started to count my blessings. They went forward in faith, and I can, too.”

On a quiet morning last week I left my office in Sao Paulo, Brazil, and walked over to the Sao Paulo Temple site. There was a soft morning mist beginning to clear away. As I walked up the gentle rise in the street onto the site, I noted with great interest and pleasure brush being cleared away and the new pegs recently driven into the ground. These pegs in the ground mark the dimensions of a new temple soon to be erected for the glory of God and the endless blessing of his children in South America. This temple will be different from any other building now standing in South America.
As I stood where the entrance of the temple will be, I recalled how thirty-six years ago my companions and I landed by ship in Santos after twenty-one days at sea and went by train to Sao Paulo. There were other missionaries on the same vessel going to Argentina and Uruguay, which were the two other relatively new missions on the continent.
In all of South America there was but a mere handful of members of the Church, mostly emigrants from Europe, many of whom were converted in Europe. As I stood last week on this site where this new, special, multimillion-dollar building will stand, I recalled how difficult and unpromising the future of the Church appeared in South America thirty-six years ago. In all of our mission we had only three baptisms in one year, despite the conscientious labors of over seventy missionaries. We did not have the Doctrine and Covenants, the Pearl of Great Price, or the Book of Mormon translated into Portuguese. We held our meetings in rooms that were small and unfit for the lofty message we were trying to teach. We often had to sweep out these rooms before meeting to remove the empty bottles and trash from the revelry of the night before. It was always difficult and often discouraging.
In comparison, last year in South America there were over 8,000 convert baptisms. There are now twenty-two stakes and seventeen missions of the Church with over 152,000 members on that vast continent; and the work has only begun. Our great first generation of South American Regional Representatives and stake and mission presidents are men of affairs, including bankers, businessmen, factory owners, and professional men. They are men of great ability and faith.
I marveled at how through the Spirit of God this has all come about. Surely it is a fulfillment of what Jesus said to his early apostles: “And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 16:19.) Having seen it all from close range, I cannot doubt that this is the work of God.
Last week at the temple site, after much brooding and pondering, I stepped farther back to where the inner rooms of the temple will be. The morning mist had now cleared so that in the distance I could see part of the great city of Sao Paulo. I recalled how as a young missionary I presided over the work in that city, with thirteen missionaries and about 300 members. There are now four stakes of the Church and about 100 missionaries laboring in that city. There are also neighboring stakes in Campinas and Santos.
This great progress in South America has come about largely through the sacrifice and dedication of hundreds of missionaries and their families, as well as dedicated mission presidents from the United States and Canada. This is changing. In the Brazil Porto Alegre Mission there are now 136 missionaries of which fifty-eight, or 43 percent, are native-born Brazilians. All of the four mission presidents in Argentina are native South Americans. How can anyone who has seen what I have deny that this is the work of God.